


a hard rain

by punkwarren (snakejolras)



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Gen, bucky on his own following ca2 events, that's the basic idea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-02
Updated: 2014-05-02
Packaged: 2018-01-21 14:45:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1554098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snakejolras/pseuds/punkwarren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Take the instincts that tell you how to kill, twist them towards you, and use them to live.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a hard rain

Life in a freezer is quiet, and that is all that it is. It is pure frost and isolation, a fortress with the power to make time stop and trap you for as long as it pleases. It could be said, perhaps, that this is the first place between two points that he and Natalia met, but that is entirely another story, and for entirely another time, when the tide washed out and that meeting was remembered again.  The point is, cold is a paralytic, it creeps into your every nerve and bone and makes you into a puppet right where it wants you.  You don't remember when it takes you by emotion, but only by instinct, when you feel it come again. The cold freezes.

Bucky was defrosting.

Survival wasn't hard for him to grasp, it was already inside him. Take the instincts that tell you how to kill, twist them towards you, and use them to live.  That was all that it was a matter of, really. Survival was not the problem, the problem was not in the hardware, but the software.

The first home he found was by a train track. A constant stream of noise that kept him awake all the time, his mind clicking on and on like a rattling air conditioner, something he couldn't quite get the hang of.  The train cleared it away, when it came by, and for a moment he was someone, out of the frost and into the warmth, long enough to terrify him. Then it was gone again, and the clicking flew in like bursts of air. It doesn't change, but it deepens. Colder and warmer. He leaves. 

The next place he finds is quiet enough for him to sleep-- truly, honestly sleep-- for the first time in seventy years. He doesn't plan to, he still doesn't know how, it happens and he lets it, willing himself into an almost peace. He wakes at first noise he hears, like a sudden rush, elements clicking in as colour and noise, his mind telling him awake without knowing just who it's really talking to. Not much, but it's enough for a process, the realization that he's the one in his mind, whatever that may entail. It starts a progression.

Who are you? 

_I don't know._

Who was he?

_I don't know. At least....I don't remember. He was nobody, I was supposed to kill him._

Then why did you let him live?

_Because he knows something, because I needed to, because he has something in him that's recognizable._

Do you?

_No._

Then who are you?

_I'm nobody._

 

He stays in the second place, he falls asleep, he wakes up, he does the same. He's remarkably skilled at stealing, because if there is one thing he is certain he is, he's invisible. He learns quickly that others are not. People halfway to starving and trying to do what they can. Eventually, he starts stealing for them too, gives them what he has and disappears before they can respond, mostly because he's not sure why he does it, or what to say. He knows he wants to. Take the instincts that tell you how to kill, twist them towards you, and use them to live.  

It makes him more comfortable with people, at least to the extent that he can be around them for longer periods, go unnoticed and do as he likes. That's when he finds the display at the Smithsonian, after he hears and sees and finally goes, like he's toying at uncaging a snake. He finds nothing exact, even when everything is exact. He finds remnants and names that sound like whispers in the back of his mind, clawing to find recognition. He finds the one that belongs to him, and it's the same one he heard. It still doesn't fit, not yet. It feels like another machine to be put into, out of the freezer and into the fire, and he can't put himself there yet. It's not certain how long he stands, but it's long enough for a child to wander up to him, spot his hand under his jacket and ask, "Are you a robot?"

He stares at her, almost in surprise, and shakes his head, softer in a way that seems to come naturally from somewhere he can't pinpoint. "No."

 

He doesn't get rid of any weapons, he only gains more. He looks in what's left of the mirror in his almost-house, takes a knife and cuts off the hair that he can. It's uneven and it's rough, and he stares at it like it's even more unrecognizable for a long time. It still doesn't fit, not yet. It doesn't have to. He looks, he repeats.

"Who are you?"

"I'm nobody."

 

 

 


End file.
